After morning matinee
and after dinner
of sausages and mash
and baked beans
you met Helen
by the post office
at the end
of Rockingham Street
she had on
the red flowered dress
you liked
and held Battered Betty
her doll
by an arm
her hair was held
in plaits
by elastic bands
and her thick lens spectacles
were smeary where
she'd touched them
but not cleaned them
where are we going?
she asked
how about London Bridge
train station?
you said
we can watch the trains
come and go
and watch the porters
rush about with luggage
and things
she gazed at you
through her thick lens
shall I tell my mum
where we're going?
sure if you think
she'll worry
you said
be best if she knows
Helen said
don't want her to worry
where I've gone
ok
you said
and so you both
walked back
to her mother's house
and she told her mother
and her mother came out
and looked at you
and said
ok so long
as you're with Benedict
and so you walked back
along Rockingham Street
and got a bus
to London Bridge
railway station
and sat on the seats
downstairs
by the conductor
and this guy with glasses
and a thin moustache
gazed at Helen
from the seat opposite
his eyes moving over her
his gaze focusing
on her knees
where her dress ended
he licked his lips
his hands on his thighs
Helen looked away
pretending she didn't
see him looking
you stared at the man
watching his eyes
dark and deep
they say it's rude to stare
you said
the man looked at you
kids should be seen
not heard
he replied
and you're seeing a lot
you said
he muttered something
and got off
at the next stop
giving you
a hard stare
Helen said nothing
but seemed relieved
after a while you got off
the bus at the railway station
and went inside
there were crowds
of people
and the smell of steam
and bodies washed
and unwashed
and the sound of trains
getting ready to leave
and voices and shouts
of porters and rushing
and going and coming
of people
and you sat
with Helen
on a seat
on the platform
she with Battered Betty
and you with your
six-shooter in your
inside pocket ready
to get any bad cowboys
who came your way
and Helen said
why was that man
staring at me
on the bus?
just a creep
wanting a peep
you said
peep at what?
she asked
I'm not beautiful
yes you are
you said
anyway it wasn't
your beauty
he was looking at
you said
what then?
she asked
oh something
he oughtn't
you said
and a loud blast of steam
echoed around
the station
and a voice called
and a whistle blew
and you all
sat watching
Helen
and Battered Betty
and six-shooter
carrying cowboy
you.
It was a small little thing
Between us a silent game
I wished it ‘good morning’,
As it brushed my window frame.
It swayed happily at me
Softly holding onto its root
The chance-grown guava tree
I thought would never bear fruit.
‘Good morn, Guavo, how are you?
My window frame, did it hurt?’
‘Nay, I’m fine, had my cup of dew,
I really made a good start.’
I loved this cute little thing
To ask it ‘how do you do?’
Loved the undernourished sapling
Why I really had no clue.
After sometime it started to fade
Keeping relations is not so easy
‘Guavo’ disappeared from my head
I forgot the lean sickly tree.
Then one day my wife came along
A big round guava she brought me
‘Taste how it is, the plant is fine and strong,
It’s from your friendly tree.’
It came back to me inside and deep
Our time-buried sweet story
Guavo hasn’t forgotten our friendship
I must run to it and say sorry.
There it stood proud and high
A full-grown guava tree
Swaying in the wind, saying ‘hi,
I haven’t forgotten thee’.
The Minute passes me by
quite disgusted by my wailing.
Leaving as quickly as it came,
I hardly think it stays the full sixty seconds.
The Hour sinks its teeth deep into my skull
pushing shards of bone-like-regret into my ego's soft, gray matter.
There's no surgical thought to remove such an irritation.
The Days...
Oh those god-damned Days.
They see me confused and so seize their chance;
they pull out my feet
right from under my frame,
and helpless, hurt,
I collapse to the earth.
Now begins their fun!
The Months form gangs called 'The Years'
and The Years take their turn
breaking my joints, my fingers, my knees,
all my snappable, crackable points.
Curved, crippled, creaking,
I want to give up.
But,
it gets worse.
A dark shadow hovers over me.
I look up as far as I can lift my heavy head
and I see coming down on me,
like a fat man resting his rump on an ant's back,
The Decades with their massive, soul crushing weight
squatting their hindquarters;
oppressively,
upon my twig-like spine.
This is a merciless beating!
This is the beat of time.
And throughout the abuse,
I crawl, cringe, cower
as safe as can be in a low state close to the ground,
(which is still six feet too high for all that time cares!)
I hear from somewhere afar
an unfaltering decree
from my maker to me
"Stand up straight! For Heaven's sake!"
With this pen
I slit my wrist
Let it bleed on this page
Release the sadness and rage
Let these words
Pick the lock and let me out if this cage
Paint a smile for those I love
They don't need to know
So I do my best to hide
All the pain that's deep inside
Writing blood and tears
In this little book of mine
No, I don't want it to show
I don't want your attention for this
It just brings more pain
If blood on the floor
Is what it takes to say my name
I'd rather hear silence
At least it's honest
So I write these words
Just for me
To keep Death away
I scribe its name
And hope one day
The pain that fills my pen
Will drain away
And I can put this blade
Down.
for my Aunt Shirley
.....……………………………………….
Fervis F. Ferville
Of South Street, North West
Could count, count, count, count
With incredible zest!
He was a very good counter,
And he would not hesitate!
For he would get up real early,
And he would stay up real late
Counting everything that could
Be owned by a Mouse,
As long as it could fit
In a little Mouse House.
And with his Shadow as Witness,
He would begin every day
Counting each little grain
Of his Bucklewheat Hay.
He would sound out each number.
That’s just what he’d do!
And he would always begin
All of his counting with “Two.”
He would count every minute
On the clock on his wall.
He then counted the hours,
The Seconds, and all
Of the in-between moments
That we never admit
Have a smidgen of good
Honest counting in it.
He then climbed very carefully
On his ABC blocks,
And counted each button
Safely tucked in its box,
Which came right to twenty-one,
All quite safe and sound.
The Greatest Button Collection
That a Mouse ever found.
Then he counted his fingers,
And he counted his toes,
His counting-type eyes,
And his counting-type nose.
He counted his ears,
And he counted his knees
And he smiled with pride,
For Fervis was pleased.
He had counted two eyes,
And one counting-type nose.
He had counted two knees,
And two stringy elbows.
He had counted two ears
That hung over his head.
And he counted the stripes
On his little Mouse bed.
He had counted each whisker,
And every brow of his eye.
And then he turned his attention
To his french fry supply.
There were twenty-two long ones,
And thirty-four short ones,
Ten busted-up ones
And eighteen athwart ones.
And there were his books,
Lots of books on a shelf
That he hid,
For he wanted them
All to himself.
With his vast and unique
Set of Counting-Mouse Skills,
And the speed and agility
Of trained Whippoorwills
He counted and counted,
And counted them all,
Every book he could find,
Every book that he saw.
All the big ones
And small ones,
The fat
And the tall ones,
Every green one
And blue one
Each old and
Each new one.
He counted his Nickets,
He counted his Nukks,
He counted every one
Of his Poppletoff Pucks.
He counted his ear lobes,
Then counted his keys,
And recounted every one
Of his ones, twos and threes.
He counted with such
A fine skill and finesse
That he proudly turned his attention
To Checkers and Chess
And he counted each Rook,
Every Bishop and Queen,
Every foul little Knight
That tormented his King.
Every Pawn en Passant,
Every possible move,
Oh, he counted them all
If only to prove
That he, as a Mouse,
Could indeed hold his own
When it came to a fine
Game of Chess in his home.
The very next thing
He would count were his socks.
He took great care of them.
So he unlocked all the locks
On his Secret Sock-Drawer,
And he counted each Two.
Then he seemed rather puzzled
When he was finally through.
For yesterday’s count
Came to Thirty-Eight pair.
Which meant that one pair was missing!
Yes, Missing! But where?
Now, this called for a re-count,
Something a Counting-Type Mouse
Does all of the time
In his little Mouse House.
So, Fervis F. Ferville,
In his perfect Mouse timing,
Counted and re-counted
Without even rhyming!
The Two and the Four
And the Six and the Eight!
He counted each sock
Until it seemed rather late.
Then he sighed as he sat
In his little Mouse chair.
And he took a deep breath
With a haunt of despair.
And he thought:
“Counting-Type Mouses
Never lose track of socks.
They never forget their neckties
Or popcicle blocks.
They do not misplace their Hourglass,
Or lose track of the time.
And Counting-Type Mouses
Are on time
All the time! ”
He fuddled and fudged,
And scratched at his ear,
Took a deep breath
Just to let his mind clear.
And he spied at his Shadow,
Who had nothing to say,
Who simply shrugged long
In its shadowy way.
So, he counted again,
Very slowly this time,
Sounding each number out,
Every succinct little rhyme.
Every four, every two,
Every ten, every eight.
Every twelve, and each twenty,
Until it was later than late.
“This simply does not make sense, ”
He mumbled to himself.
“Where could they be?
I’ve looked on every shelf.”
He searched through his house,
Very high, then down low,
Every place they could hide,
Every place they could go.
He looked deep in his cupboards,
And inside every jar.
He searched as close as he could,
And then he searched far.
He looked in his freezer,
And then in his hat,
On nights such as this
Mice will do things like that.
He hunted deep in his closet,
And then in every shoe
That he kept always ready
Underneath his canoe.
He searched up the small staircase,
And then down through the vent.
He hunted inside his chimney,
And above the bell tent.
He looked behind every picture
That hung on his wall.
And then he decided
To check behind his baseball.
He searched through his Bob-Bobbers,
And inside his fly sheet.
And, just to be safe,
He looked down at his feet.
And his eyes peered so narrow
He bit down on his lip,
And he twizzled and twozzled
Every single toe tip.
There were his socks,
Safely there, rightly put
As well as can be
On each little Mouse foot.
He hadn’t lost them at all,
And they hadn’t lost him.
They’d been there all the time
Very proper and prim.
And Fervis F. Ferville
Jumped up with a snap,
He sang out a “Woohoo, ”
And he let his toes tap.
He danced with a jig
And a biggillowigg,
Hopping about
With his toes hanging out.
He looked at the clock
That hung high on his wall,
And he stretched out, refreshed,
Like a porcupine ball.
And Fervis F. Ferville adjusted his tie.
And breathed deep the evening air.
"Why-ever have I been so distraught?
This simply does not seem fair."
I have every toe, every ear, every sock.
I have every number that ticks on my clock.
I have every whoo that has ever said hey.
It is a grand and new, wonderful day.
And wonderful days, as the story is said-
Are filled with those numbers that dance off the head,
And tap tap tap wonders of yellow and blue,
Wonders that shimmer much newer than new.
And he smiled so warmly the evening shined,
As though Fervis had one more adventure in mind.
He spied his fine Shadow, on the dash of a whim,
And his top secret Shadow spied right back at him,
And then Fervis F. Ferville so calmly called out,
"I've counted one hundred eleventy-two!
And that's a very fine count, an impressive amount.
I am certain I've counted much higher than you.
But his Shadow just leaned against the far wall,
Unwilling to join in the foray.
Shadows never re-count a good count,
Not when there's still time for Shadows to play.
And Fervis agreed.
For a fine Mouse was he,
Oh, there was so much more
To counting young Fervis could see.
And he smiled a wide smile, fine as any wise Mouse,
And returned to the joys of his little Mouse House.
Copyright © 2010 By Richard D. Remler
.....……………………………………….
'I still find each day too short for
all the thoughts I want to think,
all the walks I want to take,
all the books I want to read,
and all the friends I want to see. '
-John Burroughs
……………………………………………
You're present when I hear this song.
As if our moments in time
and futures unknown
simply belong.
One hears the sound of water
that you hold so dear.
Washing away regret
and all that you fear.
Its rhythm flows with dark ease,
as if to level down time
and propel our purpose.
Just as you ebb
from your story's past,
to channel its pain,
you propel past rocks
and aspire to climb.
Its tempo is
buoyant,
upbeat,
urgent.
Just as your gifts to others becomes
more evident,
more replete,
more fluent.
Its tone is
light,
deep,
abundant.
Just as your voice shares its
insight,
sentient.
The song takes its time to bring us through,
As you unveil the vibrance of your colorful view.
And as you savor today's moments,
seek it significance,
in everything
you do.
C. . .
I hope you
like this song,
this poem,
Oh, I hope I got it right.
I felt your presence,
heard this song,
wrote this poem,
just tonight.
................................................................................
I heard a Broughett Snap
Last night!
Oh, yes I did!
And when I heard
That Broughett Snap
I went and hid.
Deep in the dark and shadowed way
Where smarter children do not play.
Where no one whispers, no one cries,
And no one utters last goodbyes.
I heard a Broughett Snap
Last night!
And it was brash!
And when I heard
That Broughett Snap,
I made an awful crash.
I fumbled when I ran and hid,
Stumbled like a katydid
And nobody believes just what I found.
For there was only me around.
I tumbled and I tripped a spell,
I never heard death's fading knell.
And I fell into the Autumn leaves.
But nobody here believes.
I heard a Broughett Snap
Last night!
Yes, it's all true!
And when I heard
That Broughett Snap
I thought of you.
Should you fancy Autumn nights,
And find you're dazzled by the lights,
And hear the slightest Happen Tap,
Pray it's not a Broughett Snap.
Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler
*Broughett Snap Reference: The Bramblewood
................................................................................
"Eat a live toad the first thing in the morning
and nothing worse will happen to you the rest
of the day."
-Unknown
................................................................................
There is a pain swelling
Like a boat listing in the ocean
And every time, all I feel is the sickness
Sickness with Pain.
One and One make Two..
So why am I all alone?
Because the Two has split
And I'm alone as One
Shattered to millions of pieces,
With no hope for recovery,
Because you stole my chance
The Glue for My Heart is gone.
And everytime the Two talk,
it is like a song stuck on repeat,
With me writing false messages
Of Hope and Wonder for the Future
And desiring to speak my mind to You
I'm Alone and Lost without My Light
And How I Really Feel is Sick
Sick, Disgusted, Lifeless, Hated
Prove me wrong, My Second Half,
And take a walk down Memory Lane
Open up the pain and embrace it with me
Because with You I can feel at peace
With Myself
But Deep Down, I feel it is my fault
Closing in
My dreams begin
Locking me in sleep
The chains are strong
The nights are long
And the mud is all too deep
Watching the world become nothing at all,
Doing nothing, I feel so small
Captured in my own mind
My imagination has gone too far
I wonder what I will find
Who left this nightmares door ajar?
When will I wake up?
Am I dreaming after all?
When was I awake?
I don't really recall
Closing in
My dreams begin
Locking me in sleep
The chains are strong
The nights are long
And the mud is all too deep
You're heavy liquor
I'm nothing but a chaser
I'm catching you like rain drops
But when you are inside me,
You are hail
I feel the sharp sting of your words
They roar like thunder behind your teeth
Deep inside my chest you anchored a year-old
"I love you" & I can't seem to spit it out
It hangs over me...
You hang over me
Like the bee that sensed the flower
It was easy for you to take what you needed
And now there's less of me
I've spent months building storm shelters
to escape the abrupt reality of you
But you've torn through every one
You shatter steel walls like thin glass
You pull me in and I brace for impact
My heart floats and falls in your flood
You push my hair out of my face
And I know this isn't where I should be tonight
But you've knocked down trees on every street
That leads to my sanity so I let them in again...
Your butterflies with spikes hidden in their wings
